The God Tattoo: Untold Tales from the Twilight Reign (21 page)

‘Ponies?’ piped Sana suddenly.

This would be her first visit to Moorview as anything more than a baby and Carana had spent hours regaling her young sister with tales of the ponies that lived on the moor. For generations,
Moorview’s groundsmen had ensured there was a small herd kept half-tame here.

‘Yes little one,’ replied Daen, ‘but not today, it’ll be dark soon. We’ll explore the house instead. We might find some of those secret passages father’s
always telling us about.’

Sana’s enthusiasm was deflected admirably and her smile lit up the dark looks that marked her so closely to her brother, Forel, and their maternal grandparents.

Leaning out of the window I knocked on the wooden frame of the coach and the driver reined in. Cebana threw me a questioning look as I took my wide-brimmed hat and long coat from the rack above
the seat.

‘I have as much a need to arrive in the right fashion as you, my dear,’ I said in reply.

She smiled, the delicious curl of her lips drawing a kiss from me as I sat back down. Several times I had confided in Cebana that I had never felt suited to the role of Lord of Moorview. Only
the cruelties of chance had thrust it upon me. Now, with its great grey stones in view, I seemed more of a pretender than ever.

‘Moorview will not adapt to me. It has seen too many great men within those walls. I must become what it expects.’

‘You’re talking about Moorview as though it were alive again,’ interjected Daen with an irritated tone. The image of her mother, she had always been a most practical child and
saw no reason to change when she entered adulthood.

‘There’s more life within those walls than you might think,’ answered her mother, reaching out to touch her eldest daughter on the cheek. ‘I remember when your father
brought me here to be married. I had eighteen winters – barely a few months older than you are now – and was suddenly presented with this place that would one day be my own. Your uncle
had died six months beforehand so there was a queer mood anyway, but I was struck by a powerful impression that I had to prove myself worthy to Moorview as much as its inhabitants.’

‘Mother, that’s ridiculous,’ snorted her daughter, unimpressed but still attentive.

‘Perhaps so, but I took myself off after dinner and wandered the long gallery with a lamp; just myself and Moorview.’

‘The one with that ugly stone at the far end?’ interrupted Carana.

‘That “ugly stone” is a memorial to the dead,’ I snapped. ‘You know very well what they died for so give them a little more respect, young lady.’

The long gallery of Moorview took up the entire end of the north wing. The roof of the gallery always reminded me of the peaked temples of Nartis, overlapping wooden beams of oak rising sharply
toward the sky, while four tall windows occupied each end to illuminate the faces of those who had lived here. At the moor end was a massive chunk of stone, removed from the hillside on the order
of the previous king, Emin the Great. A team of masons had worked day and night to smooth the surfaces until it was ready to be carved with the names of men and regiments slain on the moorland
visible from that chilly vantage.

In anger I thrust the door to the carriage open and stepped out into the early evening light. Under the gaze of Moorview my anger waned and I reached back to touch Carana on the arm. Peace was
gladly restored. Forel had already collected my horse from the second carriage and waited with exaggerated patience as I struggled my way into the thick folds of my long coat.

‘Can I help, Father?’

I stopped my ineffective flapping and looked up at him with a needlessly sharp expression. He took no offence and, instead, slid from his horse to turn me around with an amused cluck of the
tongue before extracting my elbow from its predicament. He then took my hat from my hands so that I might work at the problem more effectively.

‘Thank you, and yes, I’ll manage to mount a horse alone.’

Forel chuckled softly and jumped back up into the saddle of his beloved Farlan stock pony. I had offered to buy him a hunter like his brother’s, but each time he had hushed me down and
declared himself content with the nimble creature.

‘Right then, do I look more like a suzerain now?’ I asked once I had mounted, albeit less dramatically than Forel.

‘No; the only suzerains I’ve met have been fat, stupid and rude. You’re closer to the king than any of those fools,’ was the laughing reply.

‘Never fear, my brother,’ Dever called as he rounded the carriage to join us. ‘We’ll feed him up on sweet meats and honey, take away his horse and get a pretty young maid
to rub his feet soft. Then he’ll be as venerable as the rest.’

‘If you two have both quite finished,’ I said with a rare smile, ‘I would remind you, Dever, that you’ll be a suzerain too one day!’

‘Aye, my Lord, and I’ll be the best of them all – fatter, stupider and with an ever ready supply of hot air to either speak in council or expel in polite company!’

I couldn’t help but join in their foolishness and our laugher brought the girls to the carriage window.

‘Well my Lord Suzerain, Lord Scion, do you think we could continue the merriment within perhaps?’ asked my wife in her sweet tones. I gave a flourish of my hat in response.

‘Of course, dear Lady Countess. Scion Derenin, while you remain able of body and mind, please lead the way.’

The brief respite from my mood had stiffened my resolve and I was suddenly anxious to be over the little bridge and through the creeper-wreathed walls that shielded Moorview from the world.

The First Evening

The gravel crunching and grating underhoof was the only sound to herald our arrival. The absence of greeting figures had never happened before in my lifetime. My idea of
arriving with dignity fell by the wayside and I stumbled off my horse at a firmly closed door. It was a tall slab of heavy oak, sat at the top of five crescent steps and studded with iron pegs. I
could clearly imagine the massive bolts driven home at top and bottom. Somewhere in the distance the crow saw my dismay and cawed its derision.

Dever and Forel slid from their mounts, running their eyes over the gloomy autumn appearance of Moorview. They were both grim now, contrasting the memory of a summer two years ago with this cold
image. It truly looked as though the soul of this fine place had died. Our coachman, Berin, dropped from his seat and glanced over the horses before turning back to the coach, only to be waved back
to the horses by Forel.

The main house, the oldest part of the castle flanked by newer wings and the single tower, was a monument to fading grandeur. Sly trails of ivy stole across the gravel paths while the creeper
dug its claws into the stonework, marching upwards to tear into the slate roof. Dark-leafed weeds had sprouted through the hard-packed drive and those cultivated plants in view stared
disconsolately at the ground, cowering from the insidious creep of the moor. The wet smell of autumn and stone mixed with pungent moor heather, an achingly familiar odour that brought me back to
reality as surely as the deep clunk of bolts from behind the door.

Dever straightened his uniform and stepped up beside me, feathered hat under one arm and pride brimming. Forel clicked the carriage door open and offered his arm to his mother, who stepped down
with stately grace.

With a serene face, Cebana took in her surroundings while the girls bustled out behind her. Raising her hand to touch the brim of her slanted hat, my wife absorbed all those details of my home
that assailed my spirits and dismissed them with a shake of her fingers. Reaching left she placed a calming hand on Sana’s shoulder, glanced over her elder daughters with approval, and then
stepped forward to take my arm as the door swung back.

A gust of stale air rushed out to greet us, withered and gloomy. The house smelled old and dead; as damp and musty as a sepulchre, and Sana gave a squeak of fright at the figure that appeared to
greet us. My words of admonishment at our lack of greeting died when I saw how cruel the years and my mother’s death had been. The stooped figure of the housekeeper forced her head up and
through the dirty wisps of greyed hair she squinted at my face until a jolt of recognition shook her body.

‘My . . . my Lord,’ she slurred through a ravaged and cracked voice.

As one I believe, Cebana and I gasped in shock, but the sound was drowned out by Sana’s scream as she saw the woman’s face. The little girl darted behind Daen who clutched both of
her sisters tightly, her face pale and rigid.

‘Madam Haparl,’ I exclaimed, at a loss what further to say. The woman had obviously suffered a stroke since I last saw her; the left-hand side of her face sagged while her left arm
seemed to be tucked and bound tight into her waist. In my shock I only vaguely registered Cebana marshalling the boys into action through my dumb gaping.

‘Dever, Forel, help Madam Haparl inside. Coran, what’s happened to the servants that she had to greet us herself, and alone? Daen, can you remember the way to the
kitchens?’

Daen nodded rather apprehensively, but she wasted no time in stepping through the breach once Madam Haparl had been seated in the hallway. I heard my daughter stamping down the corridor and the
echoes brought me to my senses as I imagined her considerable temper being vented on anyone she found there.

‘Madam Haparl,’ continued Cebana. Crouching down to be on a level with the withered woman she gently took her hand. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘They . . .’ The old lady paused to catch her breath, worn out by the exertion of her surprise. ‘Most have gone, they won’t stay here.’ Her voice could not reach
beyond a whisper but though her words were badly formed, I was relieved to see her mind had not been so affected.

‘They won’t stay here? In the name of the Gods why not?’

I spoke rather more harshly than I intended, but my remorse was assuaged when some of her old fire reasserted and I heard the scorn in her reply.

‘They’re scared. Only two stay in the house now; one don’t know better and the other’s a greedy little thief.’

‘But what are they scared of?’

‘Of what got to your mother,’ came the soft reply. It sent me rocking on my heels as though struck physically. I opened my mouth to ask more, but a tap on my thigh from Cebana halted
my demands.

‘Not now, she needs to rest. Here, touch her hand, she’s freezing.’

There was a vengeful fire in Cebana’s eyes that I had rarely seen. For all of her conflict with Madam Haparl she had clearly been touched by the old woman’s loyalty to remain in the
house when those fit and healthy had fled.

‘Forel, you go after Daen and find those maids. Whichever one seems like the thief, drag her to her room and see what’s there. If you find anything then lock her in and we’ll
deal with her later. Here, take the house keys,’

Forel nodded and took the heavy iron ring. He disappeared after his elder sister, the jangle of keys setting an angry tune for her distant raised voice.

‘Dever, go to the family room and get a fire going there, it’ll warm up soon enough. Carana, go with him and find your grandmother’s wheeled chair. Can I assume it’s
still there, Madam Haparl?’

The frail woman before her nodded through a tear of thanks and Cebana nodded to her daughter who also darted off. ‘Sana dear?’

The little girl looked up nervously from the doorstep, perhaps fearing being sent off into the black depths of the house, and hugged her cloth doll to her chin.

‘Sana, go out to Berin, help him with the horses.’

The girl bobbed her head and darted back out to her devoted friend Berin. The coachman was teased by our other servants as a simpleton, but to us he was a trustworthy fellow who would die before
seeing his beloved little mistress harmed.

Carana returned in a matter of seconds. Mother had found stairs difficult for years now, ever since a fall damaged her hip and pride. She had insisted on still using her jumble room at the top
of the main house, but the ascent tired her and excursions around the garden had been conducted in her chair, assisted by a stablehand.

The wheeled chair was a crude and comical affair – a large wicker basket fixed to a wheeled frame by the local blacksmith. My mother’s embroidered blanket lay neatly folded in the
seat there. Cebana took it and shook it out, a musty echo of my mother rising up in the air about us. When I looked at my wife, her mouth was set in a familiarly determined manner and it struck me
that Moorview would at least have one personality up to its rule.

‘Please, I couldn’t . . .’ began Madam Haparl but she was shushed immediately.

The old lady stared at Cebana’s tone, and, sensing the same as I, ducked her head in compliance. She allowed herself to be helped slowly to the chair while I held it steady, and gave a
satisfied sigh once she was settled there. Her good hand, if I can call that faded and cracked paw ‘good’, stroked the needlework of the blanket fondly, tracing the shape of flowers and
birds in flight as Carana pushed her toward the family room.

I stared after them with a simmering anger in my belly, unsettling and vague. It was not like the staff to run home. The villagers were a superstitious lot, understandably so for people who live
on the edge of an empty moor suffused with the blood of tens of thousands. Their stories were wild and deliciously horrific, but it was an unspoken rule within those tales that the restless spirits
and other horrors were confined to the moor. Many of those who died there had been monsters in life. Each man and woman with a mind for tales understood that life would be too unsettling if the
boundaries of civilisation could be breached.

As Moorview had stood firm against the tide of darkness that threatened to envelop our nation, so the tide of malevolence from the moors broke upon these dour walls and encroached no further
into civilisation. I wondered what had changed that the villagers now felt Moorview’s power was insufficient. The house seemed a shadow of its former potency, even to a learned and practical
man such as myself. I could well appreciate the fears of the servants even if the reason was yet unknown.